


Afterwards

by Saesama



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, drones everywhere, post rebranding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 16:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saesama/pseuds/Saesama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You follow her clues across a ruined world, and do your best to stay alive.</p>
<p>You wish you'd met her sooner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afterwards

You stare at the newspaper in shock.

Someone out there went and topped you. 

Some bitch went out and stole your rightful prey. She killed Guy Fieri before you could. She rode his fucking body over the sodafalls and disappeared off the face of the earth and you're the only one who gets to pull stunts like that, it's written into your life contract. You were going to reappear and take his head off and finish the trifecta of fuckery before going after the Condesce and _she stole your prey_. 

Her name is familiar. You'd read the books and recognized a like mind, one who passed on the same message you did, just as convoluted, just as subtle. You wonder if she had a personal grudge against Guy, or if she trumped him up on the same 'crimes against humanity' charges you gave the Mirthful Executives. You wonder if it matters.

You have to find her. You're not sure if it's to congratulate her or kick her ass.

o o o

You're bald and in New York, hunched over Fieri's prone body in the tiny window of unobservation you managed to secure. His bloody, sightless eyes stare up at you while you work. You didn't kill him, sure, but you'll take your trophy just the same, and the funeral later is going to be hilarious.

You end up right in the middle of the crowd with Fieri's head in a garbage bag under your arm and no one even notices. The funeral is as much of a disaster as anything else the Condesce has sanctioned, and the new, far less capable Mirthful Executives stutter and blanch when it's revealed that Fieri's missing a rather vital part of his anatomy.

The Batterwitch's scream echoes off of the buildings. You take it as your cue to leave.

An old woman catches your eye when you slip out of the plaza. Her eyes are a distinctive shade of purple, and she smiles like she knows your secret. You recognize the pancake layer of expertly applied make-up only from long familiarity and you almost veer off-course. 

Almost.

Three days later, you go back to where the not-old woman was standing. There's a symbol scratched into the corner of the wall she was near. It's impossible to tell how long ago it was put there, almost impossible to tell what it is. You recognize ogham runes and copy it down onto your forearm for later translation.

It says 'not Niagara'.

o o o

It takes four years and three false hits to pick up her next clue. Your hair is dyed black and you gouge out the Executive's eyes before mailing all three heads to the Batterwitch. 

People - the free people - stop calling you by your name. You're the Director now. She's the Writer.

You're kind of resentful of that. You've always been a bulwark of defiance against the Batterwitch, but they've gone and made you a symbol. You’re not worthy. They deserve a better symbol of freedom than you. The Writer should be enough, but you're the one that fought the Messiah's at the center of the Carnival, so they're stuck with you.

'Not Niagara' can mean a lot of things. After hitting Niagara itself and two other famous falls still flowing across America, you discover that Niagara has a little brother down river. It was once a pretty place and you scour the land relentlessly. 

You find what you're pretty sure is another rune set on the corner of a sign post.

It's gibberish. 

There's rune sets on all four corners of the post. 

It's still gibberish. You nearly scream in frustration.

You start playing with the arrangement of the letters. When you alternate letters from the four sets counter-clockwise, it almost starts to make sense. Clockwise makes more sense.

It's in French Pig Latin. 

Now she's just fucking with you. 

You're going to kill her.

Or kiss her.

Something.

It's a list of more probably-locations. You already know what two of them mean right off, and that helps you figure out the rest.

They're locations of free people. Rebel bases. Defiant locales.

Safe houses.

o o o

It's been ten years since you offed the Executives.

The girl in bed with you is young, born after the Rebranding and bombarded with propaganda her entire life. There are a few at each safe house, young people who are willing to try to overcome the brainwashing both subtle and blatant, who want to keep alive traditions like movies and music and sex. You teach all three, and you're still enough of a Hollywood hedonist that a slow, constant trickle of virgins is one of the highlights of your life.

Even if they're increasingly scared and disgusted of the act. Even if it takes more and more patience to teach them properly. 

Oh well. You're not as young as you were, and the slower pace doesn't really bother you.

Most nights.

You sit up in the bed, wishing you had a cigarette. You make do with petting the girl’s hair. She doesn’t snuggle, and she doesn’t cuddle. No one cuddles anymore. No one knows how.

“Director?”

Shit, you thought she was asleep. You grunt wordlessly and scratch down the back of her neck. She kind of arches into it, like she’s not sure if she likes the contact or not. “Director, the Writer was here a few months ago.”

“Hm.” Not surprising. She’s been hopping the safe houses, same as you.

“She spoke of you.”

That gets your attention. “She did?” And your voice is as deadpan as ever, but something must have come through your tone, because she squirms a little as if you’re staring her down.

She nods into the pillow, the sheets tucked up under her neck. “Sort of. She said that she hope’s you’re an anglophile. What does that mean?”

You laugh shortly and squish down the bed, lying back with your arm tucked under your head. “There used to be a country called Britain,” you explain. “An anglophile was someone who loved the country and its culture, but didn’t live there.”

“Oh.” She shifts a little, and then she turns towards you and sort of cautiously pillows her head on your shoulder. You let her, scratching at her back until she falls asleep.

Anglophile. Cute.

Because the English came from Britain.

o o o

It takes you another year to get across the country to the old factory. Grandma English was someone you admired deeply, as the first person who stood up to the Batterwitch. The company folded after Grandma’s death, and no one was able to find the rumored heir to her estates. The old factory still stands, though, and one man has the key.

You creep up on the house of the old security guard, as silent as you can be. The man is a familiar name among the free people, the only man in California who knows where to hide and when the raids are hitting. You reach out and almost tap on the window, when you realize that there’s a very familiar voice talking to the old man.

Terrifyingly familiar. And very, very mechanical.

You tighten your hand on your sword.

o o o

Your breath rasps in your lungs as you pound across the tarmac. The creaky building looms overhead, and blood drips from your sword to trace your path across the parking lot. You kick the door in – no sense in being subtle now – and hustle across the entry.

Something loops out of the shadows and around your neck. It doesn’t choke, but it tightens enough to make you pause. Something shifts behind you, and you whip around, the filament around your neck pulling like a rope burn until you sever it with your blade.

The Writer is standing there, two knitting needles in her hand. A hank of yarn drapes over your shoulder and you rip it away. “We have to go,” you tell her.

She raises a brow but falls into step beside you. “A pleasure to meet you,” she hums. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“Furegelli betrayed you to a drone,” you grind out, stalking back to the door. “Seems he wanted a nice, honest retirement. He’s dead but I don’t know if the drone transmitted the information before I tore it up.”

Her lips tighten. “Damn it,” she murmurs. “This is the last safe place on this coast.”

You glance at her as you walk. She’s your age, lined with stress and hardship and still perfectly, elegantly poised, and she’s proven herself fully your equal. You wish you’d met her a long time ago.

Her eyes dart over and she smiles a little. “My agent suggested I hire you to direct the movie version of Complacency,” she admits. “I rather wish I hadn’t laughed in his face.”

You bark a laugh and shove the door open into a sea of red metal. “Well, shit.”

“I do believe the drone had time to transmit his message.”

“You think?”

“Shall we see who can wreck more?”

You grin as the first wave of drones breaks against your blade. “You’re on, bitch.”

You never saw the point of goofy strife specibi, like knitting needles or fancy Santa’s. Not until you see the Writer impale two drones through the head and yank on the attached yarn to whip them around like a demented mace. Whatever else she is, she’s deadly with the things. And then you realize that she’s cheerfully calling out her score, and she’s ahead of you.

You race through the drones, neck and neck, exchanging barbs and stealing kills and watching each other’s back. You fight your way out of the factory, out of the tattered town that surrounds it, towards the scrub forest where you might have a chance to escape and go to ground. But drones keep pouring in, a never-ending wave of red metal and spiky helms, and you can’t keep this up for forever, something has to change.

Change comes in the form of all of the drones suddenly backing away.

You edge up to the Writer, back to back, and you’re facing the right way, so you see her first. She’s tall and curvy and proportioned wrong, her rib cage too short and her limbs too long and her lower torso too flexible. She moves with sinuous, wavering movements, like a dancer or a snake or a fish, and you feel a deep wash of hatred and disgust and desire. She smiles like a piranha, and the Writer turns to see what caught your attention.

“Well, shit.”

“That’s my line.”

“I felt it was appropriate.”

The Batterwitch twirls her trident casually. “I’ve been waitin’ for this,” she hisses.

The Writer steps up beside you, her chin high and her expression fierce. Your disgust is swamped with a wave of affection for this woman you never got a chance to know, and you take a better grip on your sword.

o o o


End file.
